Hopes and Dreams
by KCEstel
Summary: 7 months after Boromir left for Imladris, Faramir is still plagued by dreams and they are getting worse. As the War of the Rings reaches its climax, how will Faramir cope with the consequences? TWO SHOT [complete]
1. Chapter 1

Okay, second time lucky. I did have this posted already but a reviewer I had for one of the prequels said that Faramir seemed a little immature. Re-reading it, I had to admit that she was right so I took it down and made a few adjustments. Hope this works better of you _liz_.

**Disclaimer:** Yes they're mine, all mine. My precious! (wakes up from dream) Or not. (wistful sigh) As much as I am saddened to admit, anything you recognise in this tale (characters/places/etc) are the brain child of the wonderful Professor Tolkien. I promise not to cause too much damage, and I will put them back once I've finished with them.

_**A/N;**_

 This is a continuation of _Looking through your eyes_ and _Don't Promise._ It can be read on its own or along with the other two stories.

 It is **AU**. The age gap between Faramir and Boromir is **15 years**.

 The time line is a little off (about 12 years) The events of LOTR still happen when they are supposed to but Boromir is 31 rather than 42. Faramir is 16.

 I must point out that the character descriptions are the ones that coincide with the MOVIE because this is how I picture the characters

* * *

Life in Minas Tirith got gradually worse the longer Boromir was away. The black cloud which hung over Mordor thickened with each passing day, the only light coming from the orange orb at the top of Barad-dûr. Attacks on the defences were becoming more and more frequent and Minas Morgul glowed an eerie, unnatural green. To cap it all, Faramir was still receiving dreams. They had been mainly about varying attacks which were happening throughout Gondor, but usually little more than shadows.

On February 16th, (the same day that the Fellowship set out from Lothlórien) Faramir was received another dream. He had been laying by the fire in his father's sitting room along with the Steward's hound, Súldál, simply enjoying the peace and quiet, when he fallen asleep, the dog resting in front of him. Denethor had come in to find his foxy-haired cub and the chocolate hound curled together. Smiling he sat in his favourite chair and simply watched the child sleep.

As he sipped his glass of warm wine, Denethor mused over the life his sons had. Both had entered the military in the summer of their fifteenth year. Boromir, having practically been born with a sword in his hand, took to swordplay instantly. Faramir however was clumsy with the sword. Archery was more suitable to his lithe form and he excelled at it. Denethor was immensely proud of his sons, both of their battle skills but also the way that they had accepted what Fate had given them.

Denethor smiled as Faramir snuggled closer to Súldál a lazy smile forming on his relaxed features. Faramir had been training what seemed like non-stop for the past three weeks, concentrating mainly on his swordsmanship, and now he was completely exhausted. He was getting better but had the unfortunate task of living up to Boromir's standing, which _no one_ could ever achieve but at least it gave the younger son something to work towards. In his turn, Boromir strove to reach Faramir's standard in archery.

_A little friendly competition never harmed anyone_ though Denethor with a smile.

Pouring himself another drink, Denethor noticed Faramir becoming restless. The movements caused Súldál to wake and she began to nuzzle Faramir's neck in an attempt to calm him. It didn't work so setting down his glass, Denethor moved to calm his son.

"No," moaned Faramir, struggling against the hold the dream had on him.

"Hush, Fari. Don't fight it," whispered Denethor, running a hand through the wayward hair. Faramir was not settled though. Instead he became even more restless, causing Súldál to yelp in concern.

"Father!" yelled Faramir. Denethor's eyes grew wide. What was his son seeing that caused him to yell out in such a pained voice? Faramir began to whimper, all the while asking for either Denethor or Boromir.

"Hush, child. Come on Faramir wake up. It's only a dream," said Denethor, kneeling on the floor beside the youth. He spent the next few minutes alternatively soothing and commanding. After about five minutes Faramir inhaled sharply and his eyes flew open. He gazed around uncertainly and released a choked gasp when his eyes came to rest on Denethor.

"Papa?" he whispered, and wrapped his arms tightly around Denethor's broad shoulders. Denethor realised how much of a shock the dream must have been to Faramir's system when he heard the endearment. That and Faramir had rarely thrown himself at his father as he had just done. Faramir hadn't used the name or carryout the action since Finduilas had died ten years previously.

Faramir had been only five and had not understood why his mother simply refused to wake up one morning. Faramir had hurried to find Boromir and explained that 'Mama wouldn't wake up'. When Boromir had returned to their mother's bedchamber, the twenty-year-old had of course recognised what had happened to Finduilas and immediately removed Faramir from the room before calling a servant to find the Steward. It had been Boromir who explained to Faramir why their Lady mother would not waken.

A change then came over the small boy. He seemed to have matured almost overnight, his speech and manner becoming a lot more proper (except around Boromir) and his childhood innocence seemed to have been stripped from him. Now to have him call Denethor 'Papa' once again and to have his son wrapped around his neck scared Denethor slightly.

"Yes Faramir. It's alright," stated the man. "What did you see?"

It took Faramir a minute or two to compose himself before he was able to recount his vision; "The White Tree," he whispered. "It was surrounded by smoke. The City was burning. Flames were everywhere."

"What else?" asked Denethor. Faramir shook his head. "Faramir, I know there was something else. You called for me. You sounded in pain."

"I watched you fall," whispered Faramir, turning his head away to hide his tears. His father could _not_ see him cry!

"Fari?" asked Denethor, reaching out a hand and turning Faramir's face so that their eyes met. "Fari, why do you feel you have to hide?" asked Denethor.

"So you don't think I'm weak," replied Faramir. "Look at me! I'm crying because of a _dream_!"

"Faramir I would _never_ think you weak," chided Denethor gently. "I used to have these dreams. I know they can be very violent and seem very real. I received them as an adult and I still woke up screaming or in some cases crying. I convinced your mother thought I was loosing my mind! You are still a child, no matter how much you pretend otherwise, and your body's reaction is telling you that. It is no shame to cry. In fact, it takes a lot of courage to show emotions."

Something broke within Faramir and before he could blink, Denethor had an armful of teenager. Faramir buried his face in Denethor's clothed shoulder and sobbed out his pain. All the while Denethor held him tightly, whispering calming words, both pained to see his son in such a sorry state but at the same time, glad that his innocent little cub had returned.

"The future can be changed, Faramir," he whispered. "Not everything think you have seen will come to pass."

_Why does he always have to see the death of loved ones?_ wondered Denethor. _And why does he always have to see the truth?

* * *

_

Unfortunately, the one thing that both Faramir and Denethor had been dreading since Boromir had left seven months ago _did_ come to pass. Faramir had been sitting in the courtyard, having some lengthy (and incredibly boring) discussion with his tutor about the history of Minas Tirith, when an errand rider rode up and almost fell from his horse in his haste. There was something clasped in his hand but Faramir could not see what it was clearly. He thought it was a piece of white driftwood but why on earth would the rider be _sprinting_ up the Citadel steps with a piece of _driftwood_?

As the rider turned slightly, Faramir caught sight of the object and gave a strangled yelp. His tutor looked at him sharply.

"What is the matter?" the man demanded, but Faramir was already on his feet and dashing after the rider.

He burst into the Throne Room where the rider was standing in front of Denethor, holding out the object and speaking in a low voice. Faramir crept closer, not wanting to disturb the rider's report, but wanting to get a better look at the object, just to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. Are rather, to hope that he _was_ dreaming. The moan of pain the Denethor let out told him otherwise and Faramir fought back the urge to scream. Not caring about proprieties Faramir dashed to his father's side and held him as he slumped. Denethor turned his head and Faramir saw tears swimming in his grey eyes.

"Leave us!" Faramir called to the people in the Throne Room, setting Denethor back on the chair. A few, including the errand rider, left but other's did not look impressed at being ordered around by a sixteen-year-old. "LEAVE US!" yelled Faramir, his own emotions beginning to come to the surface. Those that remained hurried out quickly, leaving Faramir and Denethor alone.

"Fari," whispered Denethor. "I'm so sorry."

"No," replied Faramir. He removed the cloven horn from his father's grasp and turning, reverently placed the halves, on the steps which led to the King's Throne.

"I sent him to his death," murmured Denethor. "You told me what fate awaited him and still I sent him from your side."

"_Our_ side," asserted Faramir. He swallowed the lump which was forming in his throat. Now was not the time for tears, he could cry in private. For moment, his father needed him to be strong. "When was he found?"

"Anborn said a funeral boat passed by Henneth Annûn three days ago. Boromir had puncture wounds in his chest."

Faramir nodded. "I heard the horn," he whispered. Denethor looked up sharply.

"When?" he demanded.

"Six days ago. When I was outside with Súldál, I heard the horn blow. From the northward it seemed, though dim, as if it were but an echo of the mind, I've longed for Boromir to be home since the day he rode away. When I heard the sound, I thought it meant he had reached the borders of Gondor and would soon be home. Now I see that that hope was in vain."

"My dear child," whispered Denethor. "No one can hope in vain."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Yes they're mine, all mine. My precious! (wakes up from dream) Or not. (wistful sigh) As much as I am saddened to admit, anything you recognise in this tale (characters/places/etc) are the brain child of the wonderful Professor Tolkien. I promise not to cause to much damage, and I will put them back once I've finished with them.

_**A/N;**_

 This is a continuation of _Looking through your eyes_ and _Don't Promise._ It can be read on its own or along with the other two stories.

 It is **AU**. The age gap between Faramir and Boromir is **15 years**.

 The time line is a little off (about 12 years) The events of LOTR still happen when they are supposed to but Boromir is 31 rather than 42. Faramir is 16.

 I must point out that the character descriptions are the ones that coincide with the MOVIE because this is how I picture the characters

* * *

Denethor had gradually sank into depression in the days following Anborn's delivery of Boromir's cloven horn, until eventually not even Faramir was able to coax anything out of him. The Steward's mood was not improved by the arrival of Mithrandir seven days later. He was accompanied by a strange creature who was about 3' 8", had muddy brown skin and dark brown, almost black, hair. His feet bore no shoes and he was clothed in an odd assortment of clothing, all of which was travel stained.

"News is brought to me that you bring one who saw my son die. Is this he?" demanded Denethor in such a callus manner that Faramir, who was standing at a nearby table pouring over varying maps, flinched.

"It is," replied Mithrandir. "One of the twain. Yet this is not the halfling of whom the omens spoke."

"But a halfling still," muttered Faramir, not removing his attention from the maps. The halfling beside Mithrandir glanced over at Faramir and saw that the foxy-haired youth was in some form of pain.

"You speak of Boromir's death," stated Mithrandir. "You have had news?"

"Boromir's horn was found washed up on the banks of the Great River seven days ago," replied Faramir looking up. "One of the Ithilien rangers brought it hither."

"My boy," bemoaned Mithrandir.

"Perhaps you can explain what happened!" exclaimed Denethor, standing sharply and glaring heatedly at the wizard, his pent up emotions of the past seven days beginning to find release. "Explain to me how my son came to be dead!"

"The mightiest man may be slain by one arrow," said the little creature at Mithrandir's side. This wasn't the wisest of things for the halfling to have done as it gained him the scrutinising gaze of both Faramir and Denethor. "Boromir was pierced by many."

"You were there?" accused Denethor. "How did you escape and he did not?"

"The last I saw and remember of Boromir was him leaning against a tree and pulled a black-feathered arrow from his side," answered the halfling, taken aback slightly by the harshness in Denethor's voice. It was nothing like Boromir's kind, soothing manner. Faramir's voice held no emotion.

"He died to save us, my kinsman and I, who had been waylaid in the woods by the Falls of Rauros. I was taken captive by the Orcs of Saruman. Though he failed and fell, I am eternally grateful for his sacrifice. In payment of this debt, I offer you my service."

Faramir had crumbled at the halfling's words. Unable to stem the tears which were now falling from his eyes, he gave a brief nod to his father and ran from the Throne Room.

He collapsed by the wall and hugging his knees, Faramir let his tears flow as his shoulders shook violently, pent up grief finally taking over.

* * *

How long he sat there he did not know but he must have fallen asleep because his next conscious thought was being shaken by someone.

"My Lord are you alright?" asked an unfamiliar voice. Faramir blinked and found himself being watched by the halfling that had arrived in the City that afternoon. The small creature was gazing at him in concern.

"I'm alright. I just miss Boromir," replied Faramir.

"I know the feeling," smiled the halfling.

"Forgive me but I'm not sure you do," smiled Faramir. "You miss Boromir, and I will not prevent you from doing such but you miss a friend and hero, I miss my brother."

"Pippin," said the halfling suddenly. Faramir blinked.

"Your pardon?"

"My name. Peregrin Took at your service. Though generally I'm called Pippin, or even Pip." Faramir smiled.

"My name's Faramir," he said and offered a hand to the young halfling.

"Did your brother ever call you Fari?" asked Pippin. Faramir closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly.

"So you're the cub that he talked about," said Pippin, settling himself beside Faramir. Faramir's eyes shot open and he stared at the halfling.

"He talked about me?"

Pippin nodded vigorously. "All the time. Whenever Merry and me were feeling depressed he would always tell some story about you. About how he gave you your name, about the varying pranks you pulled and how you _always_ seemed to get away with them, about how you were a master at archery, all kinds of things. I think he was focussed on getting home to you more than anything else once we had set out from Rivendell."

"He called me cub?" asked Faramir gazing dazedly at Pippin. Pippin nodded.

"It was either cub or Fari. Gimli was convince you were some form of animal. He got very confused when Boromir said you talked."

Faramir grinned. "I take it Boromir didn't correct him?"

Pippin shook his head grinning widely. "It was funny to watch Gimli's reaction to the phrase 'Fari said'"

Faramir laughed, "That sound's like the Boromir I remember."

Pippin's cheerful disposition vanished. "I am sorry Faramir."

"What for?"

"It is my fault you lost your brother," replied the halfling. Faramir shook his head.

"I knew I would lose him to battle. I even saw that he would fall on your Quest…."

"And you still let him go?" interrupted Pippin in disbelief.

"The fate I saw could not have been changed," replied Faramir solemnly. "If I didn't lose him to this battle, it would have been another. It is the way of the world in which we live. At least I got a chance to say goodbye."

* * *

Faramir began to perk up a little now that Pippin was in the City. The young halfling (or hobbit as he _insisted_ upon being called) had a ready sense of humour and his optimistic remarks always brought a smile to Faramir's face. Surprisingly, Pippin also had a few good ideas when it came to planning Gondor's defences. Even Denethor began to come out of his depressed state. Though the Steward would primarily see Pippin as the cause of Boromir's death, the fact that he brought some measure of cheer into an otherwise depressing state of affairs and made Faramir smile and seem like the innocent child he should always have been, Denethor made a valiant attempt to at least be civil to the young tower guard.

However midway through March, things took a decidedly _bad_ turn. Minas Morgul emptied and the subsequent attack led to the fall of Osgiliath. The enemies troops began to move across the River and they began to set up forces on Pelennor Fields. Errand runners had been sent to Théoden of Rohan at the beginning of the month but their help did not seem to forth coming. The siege of Minas Tirith began on the 14th and Denethor seemed to lose hope completely.

Siege towers controlled by Mountain Trolls and housing thousands of Orcs collided with the walls while trebuchets and catapults exchanged fire. It was all hands to battle stations and thus Faramir found himself somewhere on the second level fighting with men who had been soldiers since before he was born. He tried not to think about the fact that his city was destroyed piece by piece.

"This is _not_ happening!" he muttered wrenching his sword out of one Orcs gut and into another and heard something heavy collide with the Main Gate. "Théoden where are you?"

Finally, the battering ram broken through the Gate allowing Orcs and six trolls to charge through. A high pitched scream rent the air as Nazgûl began to attack.

"Éomer! Théoden!" yelled Faramir becoming desperate. Suddenly he was hauled off his feet and found himself sitting on Shadowfax.

"Let me go!" demanded Faramir.

"This is no place for a child," replied Mithrandir as the stallion cantered through the streets.

"Tell that to the people who live down there! Let me go!" retorted Faramir still struggling. Mithrandir however had other ideas and did not release Faramir until they reached the courtyard on the seventh level. Snarling at the Istari, Faramir began to sprint back to the fighting only to collide with Denethor's chest.

"Hope is lost," said Denethor gently. Faramir's eyes widened in horror.

"No. It can't be. You said what I see might not happen. I cannot let the City fall!"

"I am sorry Faramir. The City will burn. The West has failed."

"NO!" screamed Faramir dashing around his father and a horn blast seemed to echo his conviction. Faramir spun around and caught sight of the Rohirric host. "They're here." He inhaled sharply, suddenly realising that he had seen this before and it had _not_ ended well.

"Mithrandir make yourself useful and get my Father to the Tower! He is not safe out here!" demanded Faramir sharply. Mithrandir's brow furrowed while Denethor blinked and then his eyes widened.

"WATCH OUT!" yelled a guard as Nazgûl flew over. Neither Lord had enough time to make it to the Citadel so Denethor threw himself at Faramir, knocking them both to the ground. Faramir gasped as the air was knocked out of his body, only to have the weight relieved by the Nazgûl's winged steed.

"FATHER!" yelled Faramir, reaching out to grab Denethor's hand but he was wrenched away to fast. He was dropped again eight metres away. "Get a healer!" yelled Faramir as he clambered to his feet and sprinted to his father's side.

"Papa, please wake up," begged the youth, shaking Denethor's shoulder.

"Fari?" whispered Denethor opening his eyes.

"Yes Papa," taking hold of Denethor's hand. "A healer is on his way."

"Too late, Fari," rasped Denethor.

"No Papa, you said I saw could be changed!"

"And they have changed... But not for me," whispered Denethor. "The King is coming…. You will help him…. Look after the City…. Farewell my precious cub…." Denethor closed his eyes again, allowing the last breath to escape his body.

"No, Papa. Papa?" Faramir swallowed back the emotions that were rising up.

_Later_ he promised himself. _You can grieve later._

Catching sight of Pippin, who was wandering around the courtyard, also having been forbidden to fight by Mithrandir (_That Istari should learn to keep his nose out of other people's affairs!_) he called him over.

"Guard the Steward, Pip. Do not let any_thing_ or any_one_ touch him until I return," ordered Faramir and before Pippin could protest, Faramir snatched up his sword again and sprinted back to the battle.

* * *

Faramir went through a drastic change over the next few days, and the once loving, sociable child began to withdraw into a shell which seemed to grow harder and thicker every time someone tried to penetrate it. He helped with the stabilising of the City as much as he could but there was nothing anyone could say or do that could bring the smile back to his lips or spark back to his eye. Even Pippin began to lose hope that the child would ever recover. It wasn't until Aragorn had hunted out the last remaining Hurin, on the evening before his coronation, that Faramir began to heal.

Faramir had been sitting in the courtyard, his back resting against the low wall that surrounded the White Tree and staring out Westward, his lips moving but no sound being emitted, when Aragorn found him. Making himself comfortable beside the fox-haired youth, Aragorn had sat in silence for a few minutes before Faramir began to feel both agitated and nervous.

"Can I help you, Sire?" he asked.

"Your people are worried about you," replied Aragorn, glancing around at him.

"Why? I am no one of great importance," said Faramir, resting his head on his knees.

"Now I think that is where you and I disagree," said Aragorn. "You must be someone of high standing for so many people to be worried about you."

"I _was_ the Steward's son. I _was_ the Captain-General's brother. That is the only advantage I had over anyone else in this City. Now that the King has returned, I am simply another orphan that the noblemen feel they have to look after."

"Would people from the lower levels be asking about a simple orphan?" asked Aragorn. "You are special Faramir, don't let anyone tell you different and that goes for you as well."

"If you say so my Lord," murmured Faramir, his face still resting on his knees.

"Pippin told me he talked to you about the Quest. Or at least until he was captured," Aragorn tried, hoping to get a reaction from Faramir. Faramir nodded his head.

"When I heard that Boromir had died to protect him and his cousin I didn't know how to react. But then, I always knew that I would lose Boromir to battle, he wasn't the sort of person who would sit idly by and let others do the work when he could do it himself, I just hoped that it wouldn't be this one."

"His last thoughts were of you," said Aragorn gently. "As he lay dying, he asked that when I reached Minas Tirith, that I would look after his cub. He loved you Faramir and even now he is watching you. What do you think he will be saying?"

"That I was being an idiot," replied Faramir. "Sire I appreciate the gesture but I have to accept the fact that I am no longer the person I was. I no longer have the option to see myself as a child."

"You have every option. Faramir, you are only sixteen, don't try to grow up before you have to."

"What choice do I have?" exploded Faramir standing up sharply. "My family is dead and I watched them both die!"

"Your pardon?" asked Aragorn, clearly shocked by Faramir's exclamation.

"The dream that sent Boromir away. It came to me. Six times in total before he left. The week before he left I began to dream about him dying as well. I saw him be struck by black arrows. I watched him blow his horn but no one came to help. Only more Orcs. I watched as each arrow struck him. The week before his horn appeared, I dreamt about my father's death. I watched him be struck down by a Nazgûl! I tried to save him but he still fell. I held his hand as his spirit fled. He had to be literally pulled from my arms. I grew up along time ago Sire."

"Fari wait!" called Aragorn as Faramir began to move away. Faramir stopped.

"Don't," he muttered. "Don't call me that."

"My apologies. Boromir rarely called you anything other than Fari."

"I know." Faramir turned round. "Sire, please. Just treat me as you would anyone else. I am not the only one who lost people to this war. The lower circle residents lost more."

"And they will be cared for. Faramir, I promised Boromir that I would look after you and I mean to do that. I will not force or coerce you into anything but please, let me help you."

Faramir looked up at his King at saw a pleading glint in his eyes.

"Please?"

"Can we take it one day at a time?" asked Faramir.


End file.
